Paula Spencer Read Free Page A

minute's silence, after one of the strikers died. They all stood, Paula and the kids. A few hours after Paula had wiped her own blood off the kitchen floor.
    She's seen the posters for their Dublin candidate. Mary Lou McDonald. A nice-looking young one. A big smile on her. She wasn't alive, probably, when all that happened.
    Paula should have her own posters. Energy. Drive. She sits up straight in the chair. She reminds herself to do it. Straight-backed Paula Spencer.
    She hears feet upstairs.
    She wonders have they remembered.
    It's Jack. She can tell – the time between each step. She imagines him, one foot up, like one of those birds in the water. Calm, waiting.
    It's Jack alright, gone into the toilet.
    She hears the flush.
    She drinks more of the coffee. She can feel it push through her. She can feel it in the hair on her arms.
    Jack is coming down.
    Leanne is different. Leanne is another bird, one of those little frantic birds. Darting all over the place. Pecking at everything. Her steps are little punches to the floor.
    Jack walks in.
    —Howyeh, Jack.
    —Hi.
    —You're up early, she says.
    It's June. He's on his holidays. He's usually still in the bed when she goes. She doesn't know when he gets up.
    —What has you up?
    He looks at the window, at the light.
    —Don't know, he says. —Couldn't sleep.
    He stands there at the door. His jeans are huge, dragging on the floor. They're down over his arse. She looks at his feet. One of them is off the floor. She smiles.
    He moves. It's like he's been kicked, or goosed.
    —Oh yeah, he says.
    Now he walks in.
    —I have a job.
    —Ah, great. For the summer, just?
    —What? Yeah. Yeah.
    —What's the job?
    —Lounge-boy.
    —Where?
    —Finnegan's Wake.
    It's the local. Someone bought it a year ago. And the new name went up. Finnegan's Wake. After the famous book.
    —What's it like these days? she says.
    —Alright; yeah.
    —The same crowd?
    —Some; yeah. I don't know.
    He opens the fridge.
    He stood outside that pub when he was a little fella, waiting for her to come out. He stood in the rain. He often did it. She brought crisps out to him, and Coke with a straw. Like it was a treat. There you are, love. More guilt. On her birthday.
    Fuck it.
    —Would you like a rasher sandwich or something? she says.
    —Cool.
    She loves that. Coo-il. The way he says it. She looks at the clock. She has loads of time.
    She stands up. She gets the pan from the press.
    —How did you find out about it?
    —What?
    —The job, Jack.
    —I went in.
    —And just asked?
    He shrugs.
    —Yeah.
    —Good man. Will you have a uniform?
    —A waistcoat, he says. —Black trousers.
    —Nice, she says. —With the name on the waistcoat?
    —It's a bit cheesy, he says. —I've to buy the trousers.
    —I'll pay for them.
    —I'll pay you back.
    —Grand.
    She puts the heat on under the pan.
    —Pass the rashers over to me, love.
    He doesn't know it's her birthday. He hasn't a clue. It's fine. It's funny. She throws on the rashers. She steps back. They're spitting. She'll have one herself – it's her birthday.
    Finnegan's Wake.
    The whole area has changed. She's been here since the beginning. It was a farm a few months before they moved in. It was all young families, kids all over the place. Out in the middle of nowhere. No bus of its own. Near the tracks, but no train station. No proper shops, no pub. No church or schools. Nothing but the houses and the people.
    —D'you want toast or ordinary?
    —Toast.
    —Stick it in the toaster, so.
    Another present from Nicola. The toaster.
    —And a couple of slices for me.
    —Okay.
    —Thanks.
    It had been great back then. It had been so simple.
    But that's just rubbish. She knows. It hadn't been great. It had never been great. It's all changed now, anyway, the area – the estate. Or it's changing. It used to be settled. It isn't any more. The cafe is a start. And the new name on the pub. There's two groups of people living here now. Those who call it the old